


The Ouroboros

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bonding, Character Study, Developing Friendships, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Heroes to Villains, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Love, Male Friendship, Martial Arts, Mental Instability, Mentor/Protégé, Military Backstory, Minor Character Death, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, References to Illness, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vietnam War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29990358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Compatriots. Confidantes. Friends. Brothers. Family. Student and Teacher. Each other's saviours. There was no clear, precise label to what John Kreese and Terry Silver were to each other over the years and maybe a clear, precise label was not necessary, but more certain then not, what they had in terms of loyalty was near unshakable. Where John began, Terry ended and time flowed in a circle around them.
Kudos: 4





	The Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtmosphericFantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtmosphericFantasy/gifts).



> ― The ouroboros or uroboros (/ˌ(j)ʊərəˈbɒrəs/) is an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon eating its own tail, often interpreted as a symbol for eternal cyclic renewal or a cycle of life, death, and rebirth. The skin-sloughing process of snakes symbolizes the transmigration of souls.

* * *

In a mud-riddled, monsoon soaked trench, Terry's Silver's right against him, as always, rifle clutched in an unsteady hand.

In times like these, during a silent, unsteady stalemate or a ceasefire out on the perimeter, the soldiers find time to quietly reminisce over an occasional cigar or a secret, hidden shot of brandy that might just be their last; chattering about life, family back home, the occasional darling they left behind, what their plans are when they drift back into the world, who will cry for them if they're sent back in a coffin with military honors and in equal measure, in times like these, Kreese always pulls out a small, pocket sized photo of Betsy who's both the reference and the answer to all the after-mentioned questions, his initial beaming pride slightly muted and dimmed with regret and a certain sense of guilt when he spots his compatriot's big, longing eyes - Terry Silver being the only person John has met thus far who both manages to be in possession of a shell-shocked, thousand yard stare and childlike innocence reflected in his flickering gaze, all at once.

_-"There's nobody waiting for me back home. If I die here, it won't make much of a difference."-_

The kid says flatly, almost in defeat and John makes a mental note to try to reduce talking about his sweetheart to a polite minimum, not wanting to induce any hurt.

_-"Listen to me and listen real carefully -"-_

Kreese grabs his forearm in instinctual anger and outrage, shaking the hem of his jacket slightly to drive the point home, hissing under his breath, to avoid drawing attention of the other men thrilled by an anecdote Ponytail was telling them on the other side of the moat, refusing to allow anyone under his command to drift into suicidal self-neglect or harmful tendencies that might endanger or spark bad morale among his squad and lead into further chaos and descent. He isn't Captain Turner. He refuses to be. He's better then that. And death, as a concept, is so final. Meanwhile, life leaves so many doors open. So many possibilities. And Terry was young. Painfully young. At seventeen, he could live for that and that alone - the knowledge that his best years are still before him without going Awol - that they could still, as well, prove to be the most fruitful, depending what he choose to make of them and that the rain punishing them from above was just temporary. Monsoon seasons never last, as artificially philosophical as that sounded.

_-"You have to drag yourself back. You have to. For your own sake. Ever tried living out of spite? Well, you should now!"-_

John repeats his mantra firmly.

 _Spite_ \- a emotion of understated power.

Knowing fully well Twig had nothing else John could've listed as a motivational example.

And when one has nothing else, one can utilize spite - live for it, survive for it, look forward to it, push through to the next day for it.

Maybe one day, after the war, Terry and Ponytail could come to his wedding when he finally sees her again.

The answer to all of his questions tucked away safely in some inside pocket.

* * *

So, when the news of her death settles in, John Kreese mourns.

He mourns bullet riddled, bloody, exhausted, hungry, feral and on a death-march that took it's third day and night in duration, refusing to end, through a marshland - moist and guttery, sinking him up to his knees in red, grimy rice-water sewage, mosquitos in his eyes, in his nostrils, in his mouth, in his ears. What a promotion, huh? He wanted to die, but he reminded himself of his own advice given to Terry. Live. He had to live. Out of spite. He had to. If anything, there was the fact that, undoubtedly, and in almost comedically dark way, Terry Silver would probably die on his own if John wasn't around, that much was certain. And my goodness, what a strange drive to have, but John needed something. Anything. Just to get him through, to the other side of sanity, feeling almost humbled to a certain extent, begrudgingly admitting to himself, that now, if ever, he understood Twig's desperation from earlier. Surviving was hard when you had nobody to survive for, and surviving for oneself didn't seem like a lofty goal. John Kreese hardly _liked_ himself that much.

He liked Terry Silver far more.

_-"I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve that. Neither did she."-_

The kid was beside him in the muck, struggling to walk, not daring to peek up, speaking up sympathetically with an air of uncertainty, almost as if giving his condolences once more, yet unsure if he should.

_-"Should've never left her. She was so sweet and good and kind and - and I wanted to be a big hero. For her. So, she wouldn't feel ashamed bringing home the son of a schizophrenic and a -"_

John clicked his tongue in self-disgust, stopping himself mid-sentence before he could overshare and come off as sappy or weak. He couldn't stand it. Not in front of anyone. Not even Terry. Especially not Terry, with those overly expectant, eager stare of his, as if though searching for some kind of revelation in him that simply wasn't there. Thing was, Betsy did deserve better. Always. She certainly deserved much better then him. She needed someone she could feel proud of. Someone she could show off. Someone she could brag about back home. Someone her folks would be honored to have as a son-in-law. Someone she could tell tall tales of to her friends. She always said she didn't care for things like that. That she loved him for him and he believed her, because a sweet soul like her would never lie. But, what about five years down the line? What about ten? What about twenty? Would she still feel the same way then? Would she still feel the same way when he's stuck working a dead-end job with no prospects in sight, his mother's inherited condition, perhaps, catching up to him, and she's left with the realization that she tied herself to a broken madman, from a line of broken madmen?

No?

John didn't think so.

And this war felt like a chance to prove his worth.

Pick himself up from the ash and dust of his life and polish himself to reflect her worth.

Win enough congressional medals to bejewel her from head to toe with enough splendour to silence any voice that would ever claim she chose badly.

_-"Why would anyone feel ashamed of you, huh!? You're the greatest man I know."-_

This time around, it's Terry Silver's arm that's clutching his own, stopping him in stride to look at him as he spoke sounding almost hurt. Almost beyond himself in disbelief and John holds himself back from chuckling in both surprise and confusion, despite his world-weary, numb state. Twig took that comment really personally, huh? Greatest man he knows? The greatest? _Really?_ He isn't going to idealize or someone like the Beach Boys or whatever, like all the other kids his age do? It's not the bad kind of complement to receive by any stretch of the imagination, but it's certainly an unexpected one and one he considers wholly unfounded and frankly quite unfair. And he finds himself standing there, up to his neck in shit and soot and sludge, a hole in his boot from all the excess walking, soaking up his ripped socks and his foot too, coincidentally, writing it off as mere blind hero worship from someone who's lost absolutely everyone, even before this mess started, and someone who needs a champion to attach himself to desperately and John knows better then to deny it to the kid and shatter his illusions. If a momentary champion's what Terry Silver needs, then he'll be it. Didn't cost him anything. All but a little feigned acceptance.

The hailstorm thunder announcing an incoming typhoon roars in the cloud-seeped distance, and they take it as a sign to proceed forward.

* * *

Patrol duty and the subsequent shift of guard schedules.

John woke up in cold, feverish sweat dreaming of snakes again that night.

It almost came to him, in the pitch, unsettling darkness, like some sort of providence, that this is something he'll be haunted by for the rest of his life and he's decided to train himself to simply, well, for lack of a better expression, live with it, finding himself shivering in the cool, midnight air thinking of Pasadena, visiting Betsy' grave there as soon as he returns, ironically, to decorate her tombstone with the same kind of flowers she'd wear on her wedding day and bitterly smiling at the foul play of destiny, hoping her plot was placed somewhere green, where the sunlight can hit her directly. Paying his respects to Ponytail's family afterwards and offering whatever comforting words he could. Visiting the resting place of his own mother - a small, raggedy, humble cross, separated from all the others, with her date of birth and passing. No pomp or grand memorial for a suicide. A case not even the local priest wanted to commemorate, claiming it goes against all dogma. John Kreese buried so many people close to him he couldn't even keep count of them and judging by the state of Terry, sitting beside him in an equally slumped disposition, it must've hit him - hit them both in fact - that they buried at least half a dozen more side by side only today alone and they didn't even know their names.

The act of killing almost felt like an detached affair by now - the blanket between them the only thing reminding him he was human and in need of softness and warmth.

_-"Here, take my end too. We can share. This shitty weather can't last forever."-_

John found himself offering his cover to Terry, sheepishly tucking him in upon noticing the boy looked particularly shaken and in need of.

_-"Johnny. Can I ask for a favour? But, don't laugh, okay?"-_

Terry's voice cracked as he cradled his knees up to his chest, trying to maintain his body's temperature as he lit his last cigarette in a pack of twenty, his hands brown with dried up blood, shivering as he attempted to handle the match caught between his thumb and index finger, scooting up close to him, to the point where their thighs practically touched.

_-"Hold me, please?"-_

Terry uttered forlornly - and while closeness wasn't discouraged or anyhow prohibited among the ranks by any official record, it manifested through commonplace teasing, locker-room talk, shooting the breeze and the playful backslapping and chatter the men preferred in their own due time, never outright holding, body to body, to the verge where their hazy, foggy breathes intermingled in the steady air around the unlit campfire, but the world seemed so quiet and distant and far from where they were in that moment in time, amidst the jungle foliage that Kreese saw no harm in it, pulling Terry close and embracing him for a minute, tapping him on the shoulder in a feeble attempt at consolation, reminding himself how there were so many people in his life he could've and should've hugged and said goodbye to before they passed on that hugging Terry Silver in the here and the now almost seemed like a fitting percussion to take. A just-in-case. That night, the dreams regarding the snake pit didn't return and John found himself drifting into a mercifully sleepless rest.

The night afterwards, he dreamed of his own trial and being dishonorably discharged for pushing his commanding officer down the same snake pit he tried to forget all about.

Betsy's in the courtroom about to turn to leave without looking back, appearing ashamed as her parents guide her outside.

For some reason he couldn't quite fathom, Terry was there too, sitting on the defendant's bench.

  
_Smiling._

* * *


End file.
